


No Lions Were Harmed

by Prentice



Category: Galavant (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Awkward Romance, Do Not Take Seriously, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Romance, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:08:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prentice/pseuds/Prentice
Summary: It’s a funny old world when, in less than a year, Richard loses his crown, his throne, and his kingdom but still somehow manages to stumble upon his soul mate and that sneaky old thing called courage. Also a unicorn and quite possibly a dragon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is not meant to be taken seriously, especially since it's written the in the spirit of the show (which is to say, as silly as possible) and has my ridiculous attempts at humor in it. Nothing in it is intended to insult or offend anyone so, I repeat, do not take it seriously. It's all in good fun.

The worst month of Richard’s life starts on a Sunday (8/7c) and he supposes that’s fair. He never much liked Sundays anyway. They were pretty boring as far as he was concerned, especially since there was never really anything to _do_ or _see_ or _listen to_ ever since Gareth had killed his old court jester – quite comically, as it would happen; Richard really had no idea a pie to the face could do _that_ much damage – there wasn’t even anything to _watch_ , so yes, Sundays were dreadfully boring and therefore not his favorite.

He much preferred Fridays. Fridays were nice, fun. There was plenty to do or watch or listen to on Fridays. They were the beginning of the weekend, after all, and Richard had always enjoyed those.

Well, except for the Sunday part.

Saturdays, though. Saturdays were good. Lovely, even. He could do whatever he wanted on a Saturday. Bad luck it was followed by a Sunday, though.

Richard had thought about outlawing them at one point. He’d even talked to Gareth about it once. He’d seemed keen enough but then Gareth was always keen when there was a possibility of impending violence and, well, it hadn’t taken Richard long to realize that if he outlawed Sundays – the _Lord’s_ day (and really, Richard didn’t understand why it had to be the _Lord’s_ day; couldn’t it just be _Richard’s_ day?) – that there would probably be riots in the streets.

Riots weren’t really Richard’s thing. They were just too loud and messy and – and – _riot-y_ for his taste. Gareth loved them, of course, but well, Richard would much rather avoid them if he could.

Which meant no outlawing Sundays. Unfortunately. Which wasn’t _fair_ , because Sundays were just _awful_ and he really did hate them. They were _terrible_.

Not a single decent musical number was _ever_ sung on a Sunday and he should know. He was King, after all. He knew these things. Music was in his blood. In his _soul_. No one would ever find a more musical soul than his and that was a fact.

But anyway, back to Sundays.

He _really_ didn’t like them so, you know, it totally made sense that everything went to hell in a handbasket on a Sunday. Couldn’t it have happened on – oh, he didn’t know – a Monday, maybe? Mondays were awful anyway; nobody liked them. Why else would they say so-and-so had a case of the Mondays?

It just made _sense_. Mondays were terrible so it was really only reasonable to think that his life should be ruined on a Monday. Not a Sunday. Never a Sunday. Not that anybody was listening to him, apparently.

Which – hello – he was _the_ _King_. Shouldn’t someone have consulted him about all this? Well, no, probably not now that he thought about it.

Most people usually didn’t let you know beforehand that they were about to ruin your life or invade your kingdom; steal your throne and, more importantly, turn your best friend against you. Also, steal your crown, your jewels, and a whole lot of other really cool stuff that you’ll _definitely_ miss once they’re not yours anymore.

That wasn’t even to mention the servants. Those had been nice. Really nice. Even if they smelled. Quite badly most of the time.

Maybe he should have allowed them to bathe more than once a month...? Or, at least, allowed Gareth to throw them in the moat occasionally...? Not that it would’ve helped; the moat stunk quite badly on its own.

Anyway, though, yes, it would’ve been nice. The whole RSVP to your own personal downfall thing. He might’ve been at least a _little_ prepared for it.

Could’ve packed a bag, even a few trunks, maybe. Picked out some leathers and boots – oh lord, _boots_. By god what he wouldn’t have given for the chance to pick out the orthopedics and _not_ the shiny new ones that he hadn’t even broken in yet – they were absolute murder on the toes – that he’d be thrown out in.

But – no, wait.

_Wait_.

He was getting ahead of himself. He was getting _way_ ahead of himself, because this whole should’ve-been-RSVPed, taking-over-your-kingdom-bye thing, hadn’t _all_ happened on a Sunday. It had just _started_ on a Sunday.

Which was different. Which was _worse_. At least as far as he was concerned, and, honestly, it hadn’t even started out very tellingly either.

There had been no foreshadowing _at all_ and wasn’t _that_ unfair. Most of these kinds of things started with at least a _little_ foreshadowing, a smidge. Just something to let you know that ‘bad things are coming your way, man’.

Not for Richard, though. Oh no, not for him. That was just too easy, too simple, for someone as Kingly and awesome and – and – _cool_ as he was.

And he was cool, thank you very much. Very cool; the _epitome_ of cool. It didn’t matter what the servants had to say about it – what did they know anyway? Gareth, he was sure, thought he was cool. Or, well, had thought he was cool until he’d betrayed him, helped take over his kingdom, and eventually took his place on the throne.

…you know what?

Bad example. Really, really bad example. Just forget about that.  

Anyway…

Back to the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day that had been the Sunday that everything had started – well, everything.

It hadn’t started off as a _bad_ day, exactly. He’d woken up with a questionable tummy and spent far too much time on his – ahem, _throne_ – that morning, but really, was that any different from any other time his chefs made him that cheesy saucy bready thing that tasted oh so delicious but made him really quite gassy...? Not to mention bloated; dear god did he become bloated.

He was starting to think it had something to do with the cheese. He always became bloated and gassy after eating cheese. He wasn’t sure why. It was delicious. Maybe it had something to do with the way the servants prepared it for him…?

He wouldn’t be surprised. The servants could be quite troublesome sometimes and, really, he’d found that most things _were_ their fault one way or another. It obviously couldn’t be his fault. He was the King after all and it couldn’t possibly be his fault; he was never – okay, _rarely –_ okay, all right, _yes_ , only _occasionally_ – wrong.

The point was, he’d woken up feeling awful and had taken it out, rather ruthlessly, on both his privy and his Groom of the Stool, a rather rotund ruddy-faced fellow with whom Richard felt he could share just about anything with, including his musing on servants and cheese, even if the man _did_ have some funny ideas about something called a ‘ _democracy’_.

Whatever _that_ was.

Probably some utterly silly notion that only servants and commoners could appreciate now that Richard thought about it. The man had brought it up quite a lot after all. Almost every time Richard had gone to use the privy; speaking about societal fairness and voting and the people actually getting to have their own _opinions_.  

It was absolutely ridiculous if you asked him. Commoners didn’t have opinions. At least, they didn’t have any that Richard hadn’t already told them they _could_ have. Which was to say, they didn’t have them at all and the thought of them actually having them was as absurd and amusing as the thought of his servants not actually wanting to be his servants.

See?

Like he said: utterly ridiculous. Impossible, even. Ludacris.

Anyhow, where was he? Oh, yes. Inside the privy.

Or, well, no, he’d already covered that. Damnable delicious cheesy bready thing; he really should learn the proper name of it one day – or give it a name, if it didn’t already have one. It probably did, though. Most deliciously good things did, he’d found, which was why he’d always had to rename things because someone seemed to always get there first which just wasn’t fair.

He never got their first. He should’ve done. He was the King.

The King should always get there first. If he did, he was certain he’d be able to come up with some really fantastic names for things. Like – like – well, he couldn’t think of anything right at the moment but he was sure that he could if the occasion called for it.

But anyway, back to the privy, or well, just after the privy, when his already rotten day had gone from bad to – well, he would say worse but it hadn’t actually. It had honestly gotten a little bit better because of his new boots.

They were beautiful.  All shiny black leather and gold buckles. He’d ordered them months ago and had been all set to have the cordwainer whipped mercilessly for taking so long when, lo and behold, they’d arrived.

He’d felt like a royal child on – well, possibly any given day of the year – and had put them on immediately. They were a bit snug, of course, but most new boots took a bit of time to break in and Richard hadn’t minded much. He could’ve always ordered one of the servants to do the breaking in, but they were _his_ boots and he’d just received them, and he wanted to wear them for at least one day before the stench of _servant_ embedded themselves into them.

Which, in hindsight, was a mistake. Big mistake. Big fat his-feet-were-never-going-to-be-the-same mistake.

Not that he’d known that at the time. If he had, he would’ve picked his nice soft old boots which had been nicely broken in long ago and which he only wore when he planned to do nothing but loaf around on his throne and throw things at the new court jester. Or let Gareth throw things at him, which was fun too.

Either way, though, he would’ve done things differently had he known what was going to happen but since he didn’t, he put on his new boots and wore one of his nicer outfits and had just gone about his day as if everything were perfectly normal. It wasn’t of course. Not by a long shot.

Which he hadn’t found out until much later when his castle – his _kingdom_ – had been invaded and his throne, his very _crown_ , had been ripped from his hands by the woman who was to be his Queen. Treacherous _she-demon_ that she was. Why he ever thought she was even the least bit pretty, he didn’t know.

He’d obviously just been – enchanted. Yes, enchanted, that was it. Obviously. He would’ve never have picked her if he’d been in right mind. She was clearly some sort of sorceress who had enchanted him and then his people to rise up and – and – _rebel_ against him.

They would’ve never done that on their own. He _knew_ they wouldn’t. They loved him. He was their King.

That meant something – or it had, before the whole rebellion thingy happened and he’d had to flee for his life with nothing but the clothes on his back, the boots on his feet, and Jewel of Valencia stuffed up his bum. Which, let me tell you, was no little feat. That thing was _huge_ and pointy and generally just not something someone wanted to stick up their bum without proper lubrication and a few – okay, _a lot_ – of ale first…neither of which Richard had had at the time…

…and, you know, he'd never really thought about it before but perhaps his big brother, Kingsley, had been right all those years ago when he refused the kingship of their kingdom: being a King really _could_ be a pain in the ass.


End file.
